


Unspoken

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Seaside Cottage, Adultery, Angst, Declarations Of Love, Hurt/Comfort, John has to make a choice, John is a Bit Not Good, John makes up his mind, Johnlock - Freeform, Kisses, Lestrade worries, M/M, No baby in this universe, Pining Sherlock, Sadness, Sea and beach, Sexual Content, Sexy Fluff, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock stands up for himself, Sleepy Cuddles, Strong Sherlock, and Mary is not nice, sherlock and john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew that he had to end this if he wanted to make it last... (please read the tags)<br/>Chapter 9: Unity (Now complete)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moments

**Author's Note:**

> The bunch of emerging Setlock (S4) pics and theories attached to them inspired me to write this: Adulterous John and pining Sherlock. Sex, love and so many things unspoken ...

_**Cover Art by[Conduitstr](http://conduitstr.tumblr.com/)** \- **Thank you so much!**_

 

 

* * *

 

John buttoned the last of the pearly buttons of his light brown and moss green chequered shirt, the one Sherlock loved so much. Sentiment, Sherlock knew, a detail only, but one which reminded him of happy times. He resigned himself to watching, not saying a word, he knew full well that John would not want to talk to him now.

With a grunt John got up from the bed. He winced slightly when he straightened his back and walked over to the low upholstered chair to retrieve his trousers and his cardigan which had been thrown carelessly onto it. Turning his back to Sherlock he slipped into his trousers and then into his cardigan, meticulously buttoning all of the buttons, one by one.

Sherlock remained where he was, the sweat drying on his chest, and he pulled the sheet over himself when he started shivering. Memories of what had happened here minutes ago washed over him and he closed his eyes, trying to cling to the passion that had filled this room, this bed. How John had moved inside him, gently first, but soon thrusting at an almost frantic pace, desperate, grunting, and the anger had been evident in his movements, apparent in his clenched lips and his closed eyes. It was as if he was hating himself for what he was doing, but did not have it in him to stop.

Sherlock shivered more and pulled the sheet tighter around him.

'Stay.'

John glanced over his shoulder. 'Don't Sherlock ... We've been through this.'

'John ... please. Just this once.'

'You know, I can't.'

John crouched down to tie his shoelaces, avoiding to meet his eye. He was in the process of cutting himself lose, Sherlock knew. John never lingered, as if his resolve was dwindling with every additional second together. The scenario was always the same and with every goodbye and every farewell he hated himself and the situation they found themselves in more and more.  

Sherlock knew that he had to end this if he wanted to make it last.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John pushed Sherlock back against the kitchen counter and kissed him hard. Sherlock's eyes widened, his whole body tensed and with both hands he pushed John away.

'What are you doing?'

John was panting, staring at him, bemused, before he averted his gaze in an attempt to compose himself. Not a word was said. Sherlock gulped down a cutting remark, instead he let the silence linger, grow and fester, but he found he was less patient these days.

'You come here, after months of silence and without a word you just ...' Sherlock waved a hand vaguely indicating John and himself and what had just happened. 'Why? And why now?' He took a breath. 'Is Mary not enough for you?'

John turned to him then, angry. 'Don't say that!' he hissed.

'What? Am I not allowed to drag your _wife_ into your kissing me?'

Sherlock pushed himself off the counter and started pacing the kitchen, carefully avoiding touching John who had not budged an inch. He saw John's right hand slowly clenching and unclenching and Sherlock felt righteous anger settling over him like a fine mist.

'Why are you here, John?' he asked, his voice expressing a level of composure he did not feel.

'I don't know.'

John turned and leaned against the counter, burying his head in his hands. 'I don't know. Help me... please.'

Sherlock stopped pacing and narrowed his eyes at John. At John, who had left Baker Street to live with his wife Mary - John, who had chosen to remain a friend and a colleague instead of being more - John, who he had loved from the very first moment - John, who he had lost after the fall and who had gone with Mary - John, who now seemed completely out of his depth - and Sherlock had no inkling why.

'Help you with what exactly?'

'I don't know what to do anymore.'

Sherlock was silent, hoping John would continue.

'I'm miserable, Sherlock ... with Mary. I hate my life and I hate my work and I can't ... I won't ... Oh, I don't know!' he slammed his fist hard against the counter so that the mugs on the top rattled and a knife clattered noisily to the floor.

'What do you want?'

John looked up then, fixing his eyes on Sherlock. 'Let me stay tonight.'

 

*******

 

John tossed and turned on his old and sagging bed in his old room, restless and unable to find sleep. He had left Mary this evening, after another monumental row and without planning to he had turned up at Sherlock's doorstep after wandering around London for an hour. And then his brain had short-circuited when Sherlock had welcomed him to the kitchen, and he had kissed him.

 _Fuck this_ \- he punched the cushion which smelled as musty as the whole room was cold and empty - _Fuck this!_ \- he punched it again and again and then he sat up, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. It was no use, not what he wanted. He got up and padded down the stairs to find Sherlock.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sherlock gently kissed John's temple and gathered him close. Exhaustion and contentment were engulfing him like a benign cloud. Drowsy and less alert as he was, it was easy to pretend.

Pretend that John was not growing restless already, his back tensing and his toes curling and uncurling against Sherlock's shin. Not itching to get up and leave him. Not being in a hurry because he had to get away.

Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair, inhaling, cataloguing, storing the information for later when he would be alone again. He would not find back to sleep tonight, he knew. He never did after one of John's visits. Instead he would follow John, would follow him to his house, stand outside and look up to his window for a while.

It was pathetic, but it was his way of saying goodbye.

Every single time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock did not exactly welcome John to his bed that first night, but he was lonely to the core, he was weak and the fight he put up did not last long. They fought with words, willing to hurt, spitting out insults, but they grew tired soon and when John kissed him, gently this time, asking for permission it was granted, and the dams broke.

Their lovemaking was rough and hard, nothing gentle in the way John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and stroked him, roughly, until Sherlock cried out, coming all over John's hand. There was nothing but feral need in the way Sherlock's lips closed around John, working him, his eyes never leaving his face, pushing him over the edge. There was nothing gentle in the way they touched and kissed and licked and bit.

Nothing gentle in that first time, nothing at all.

And that's how it had begun.


	2. Choices

John remained stoical, hard and thus immune to Sherlock's moods, his intolerable acerbic remarks. Frankly he did not know why he was still coming around every two weeks when Mary was out with her girls. Sherlock was always so low-spirited and dragged him down, really. The sex was good, though and he needed a release once in an while.

John wiped his hand over his face and glanced up at the flat. Light was shining through the living room window, and a shower of unwanted memories rained down on him. He was too slow to react against them and so he saw the two of them laughing in the corridor after their first case, giggling, a moment so full of possibilities it had burst at the seams. The countless times they had dragged their tired feet up the stairs only to collapse into their chairs, facing each other, the ensuing silence companiable and perfect. The first night after Sherlock's suicide - bloody _fake_ suicide - when John had sat alone in his chair, the world as he knew it destroyed, his mourning fathomless. The evening some months ago, when he had come here to find solace, to find shelter from Mary's relentless bickering, from the constant fights, from the emptiness and loneliness in a marriage he had wanted, but which was slowly killing him now.

He knew that Sherlock was suffering, but he had to ignore it. He could not give him more than these short encounters, not now, maybe never. But he also did not have it in him to let him go.

John fumbled in his pocket for his key and unlocked the door. He welcomed the darkness in the corridor and refrained from switching on the light, he did not need it as he knew the layout like the back of his hand. Softly he shut the wooden door behind him and made his way up to Sherlock's flat.

Pausing on the landing he heard Sherlock pottering about the kitchen, and bracing himself he stepped over the threshold. Sherlock looked up and his face lit up with a smile. John did not return it, instead he stepped into the kitchen and dropped his jacket and bag to the floor, feeling Sherlock's gaze following his every move. He shortly glanced up and nodded at him, then walked over to the sink. They always had a cup of tea together, and so John set out to brew a cuppa, happy to be occupied.

Tea brewed, milk added to his, two sugars to Sherlock's, John handed him his mug, shortly brushing his fingers against Sherlock's, pointedly ignoring his instinctive move towards him. He moved to the other side of the kitchen and was greedily gulping down the scalding tea, while Sherlock merely cradled the mug between his hands, looking at him, his gaze intense and dark. John averted his eyes, trying to focus on something less accusatory, less painful.

Sherlock knew better than to speak now and remained silent, cradling the mug and staring at the wall opposite, waiting for John's uneasiness to pass. For the lack of anything better to do he narrowed his eyes and made a list of his obvious symptoms:

_Tension in the shoulders, clenching of the left hand, he's bouncing on his toes, unsure whether he can face me yet - ten minutes, but only if I manage to remain silent, twenty minutes and a row if I speak-_

Sherlock glanced away and bit his lips. He made up his mind, and ignoring the obvious symptoms and damning possible consequences he put his mug on the table and walked over to John. Standing behind him, he embraced him and placed his chin on John's head. He only had John once every fortnight and only for a few hours, there was no time to waste. And John responded immediately, turned around and messily kissed him, the half-full mug still in his hands. Sherlock grabbed it and breaking the kiss for a moment, placed it next to his own on the table.

John followed him as if he was a magnet and grabbed his face, pulling him down to kiss him, hard, again and again. It saved him from talking, it saved him from seeing the pain in Sherlock's eyes and after all, it was what he had come for.

 

 

** ***** **

 

 

It was there, lurking like a shadow in the corner, dangerous and ready to pounce. The restlessness and anger which made John never stay with him beyond a certain point. Anger, fuelled by a bad conscience and by secrecy. Adultery was wrong - a sin - and though John was not overly religious, Sherlock knew that he was a man guided by strong moral principles and betraying one's wife, no matter how bad the marriage was, went against his core beliefs.

It weighed heavily on Sherlock that what they shared was reduced to the body and neglected the mind entirely, as they rarely talked. Really talked that was, as in exchanging thoughts or discussing a problem as they used to. Their relationship had once been dominated by communication, by lively exchanges - one-sided as they might have been sometimes - but they had been born out of interest and fascination and they had been _together_ \- _The two of them against the rest of the world_. Whereas now they were reduced to mono-syllabic responses at best and feral grunting at worst.

'Stay,' Sherlock whispered into the silence. As he had last time, as he would the next. 'It's not too much to ask, is it?' Slowly he let his fingertips run down John's biceps and up again.

John sighed and turned away from him, facing the wall. 'I can't ... you know damn well, I can't.'

Sherlock turned onto his back. They were not touching, now that the passion had run its course, but they were still lying so close that John's body heat engulfed him and the tension in John's back and the effort it cost him not to turn to him and return the caress was like the buzzing of electric current in the cool air of the bedroom.

'Actually, I don't know, John. I don't understand how you can come here every two weeks like a cat in heat to sleep with me, only to slink off again once you've scratched your itch.'

John recoiled as if he had been hit, Sherlock saw it from the corner of his eye. He did not turn to him.

'What is it you want from me?'

John slowly exhaled, and then cleared his throat, once, and then once more, but all the preparation did not result in actual words.

'I know what I want from you - but as long as you can't even talk to me after you've slept with me ...' Sherlock hesitated, waiting for a reaction from John, but none was coming. He sat up, his mind made up and turned away. It was easier this way. He firmly planted his feet on the bare wooden floor, ignoring the cold seeping into the soles of his feet. He lifted his head and stared at his reflection in the window, John's blurry shape behind him, simulating a unity when there was only an abyss.

'John, I don't want you to come back. Not like this.'

He heard the bedsprings squeak and then John's hand was on his back, a feather-like touch only, not poignant enough to prevent him from saying the next words.

'I won't let you come back. Not as long as you made your choice.'

The touch lingered and then it was gone. Sherlock hung his head and closed his eyes. Tears prickled behind his eyelids, he pressed his palms against his eyes. Silence lingered and grew cold. The creaking of the mattress and the soft padding of bare feet on the wooden floor moving away from him were the only sounds piercing Sherlock's loneliness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely feedback for the first chapter! There's nothing in this world which encourages me more to write the next chapter(s) as quickly as possible ... ;)  
> JJ xx


	3. Apart

The surgery was bursting with sniffling and coughing patients. The long-dreaded flu epidemic had reached the borough and everyone from old to young seemed to be down with more or less severe symptoms.

John welcomed every single one of them with open arms as dealing with them to the best of his nursing abilities meant long working hours, which in turn meant that the desire and longing, still very much smouldering in his heart, was being buried in draining days and short nights. Oblivious of raised eyebrows and whispers behind his back, he was taking on extra shift after extra shift in the surgery, was saying yes to more hours before the surgery manager even had the chance to ask any of his colleagues.

It was easier that way, easier to push aside the images of delicate, pale skin and graceful, lean limbs, bury the sound of the fascinating voice somewhere unreachable, forget the bright eyes gleaming with intelligence, the brilliant mind and generous heart. Easier to pretend that the hollowness in his chest was a result of working too much and not of a profound and devastating feeling of failure.

Mike Stamford went for a pint with him a few times after work, but when he asked how Sherlock was doing, John refused to answer, clamming up, offering no explanation whatsoever, and the subsequent silent half hour was awkward to say the least. Lestrade, on the other hand, had declined an offer to go for a pint, obviously he had chosen sides, and not his.

 

 

*******

 

 

That night John tried to be quiet when he unlocked the front door and slipped into the basement flat he shared with Mary. When he shrugged out of his coat his keys and a biro tumbled from his pockets and clattered noisily to the floor.

'Damn it,' he cursed under his breath.

'Is that you?' Mary's voice rang out from the bedroom, voicing a question so obvious that it was unworthy of an answer. John rolled his eyes and remained silent, picking up the keys from the floor, shoving them back into his coat pocket, and chucking the biro into the bowl on the chest of drawers. He heard the bed creak and then the door to the bedroom was opened, revealing Mary in one of her beloved granny nighties. She did not approach him, but remained standing on the threshold, her piercing eyes resting on him, assessing him.

'What's the matter with you?'

'Nothing's the matter. I'm fine.'

'You're not -' She paused, narrowing her eyes. It was disconcerting and John turned away from her. 'Been out with Mike again? That's the third time in two weeks.'

'So?'

'Just stating the obvious, that's all. You've been out and about drinking a lot these past weeks and you've been even more ill-tempered than usual - quite a feat, even for you.'

John bit his lips and tilted his head to the side. 'I said - there's nothing the matter with me! Got it?'

Mary raised her hands in mock innocence. 'Okay, fine - no need to be stroppy with me.'

With trembling fingers John unwound the woollen scarf from his throat and carefully hung it next to his coat.

'Oh, I see! It's Sherlock, isn't it? His nibs, genius detective - the _king_ of men.'

Her mocking tone irritated John and he looked at her, a blush accompanying the anger rising on his cheeks. He read the obvious fun she was having in the wide grin on her face, and wisely chose to bit back a reply. But his heart was beating in his throat when he turned away.

'You're not seeing him anymore. I wonder, why? You used to, at least every two weeks, didn't you?'

'Yes?'

'Gosh, he must be so lonely now - poor Sherlock. Lost everything he had. Must be quite hard for him.'

John toed off his shoes and placed them precisely next to each other underneath the coat rack. He abhorred untidiness, liked it clean and orderly. God knows, how he had coped living with Sherlock - He closed his eyes, feeling a pang of regret, no, it was more a sharp, bright pain in the vicinity of his heart. Straightening his back he found Mary standing quite close to him, her arms crossed in front of her chest and obviously expecting a reply.

'I guess he must be,' he said. His voice sounded strange, constricted, and he cleared his throat. Mary raised her right eyebrow, the grin on her face growing wider.

'I won!' She said, clapping her hands and stomping her feet. 'I _won_! That's it - Fair and square.'

John opened his mouth, ready to cut her down, but Mary quickly turned on her heels and returned to the bedroom, shutting the door on him. Perplexed, John stared after her, his mouth opening and closing, tasting, but swallowing the damning reply. Instead, he slipped back into his shoes, grabbed his coat from the coat rack and fled the stifling atmosphere of the flat.

 

 

*********

 

 

'Right - Give me!'

'The square right thumb is characteristic in the family, predominant in the male side, as you can see here -' Sherlock pointed at the digit in question. 'You will find that they will perfectly match the prints found on the knife at the crime scene in Carson Road. There's your proof.'

DI Lestrade stuffed his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers and rocked on his heels. 'That's it? - I could've done that.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Facile.'

'Not an obscure brand of European talcum powder or a knife only available for professional Sushi cooks?'

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, his eyes going in and out of focus. Lestrade noticed how his jaw clenched, his mouth worked, most likely readying to spit out a reply, telling him how imbecilic his officers were, or maybe he was already far away, ahead of this dingy bedroom, somewhere else - but as it was his statements were not deemed worthy a reply. Peeling off his gloves and dumping them into the bin, Sherlock instead strode out of the room without another word, his characteristic coat billowing out behind him.

Lestrade sighed, a sudden rush of sadness washing over him. With John out of the picture, Sherlock was a mere shadow of his former self - inattentive, bland even, uninspired - the brilliance was still there, but the glow had gone. He had learned from various sources that John was so absorbed in playing the husband these days that he had no time left for Sherlock, no time to assist him, no time to be there for him as a friend - or whatever these two had been for each other. What a shame -

With a flick of the head Lestrade ordered the young PC standing next to the door to cover up the corpse and left the room.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock declined Lestrade's offer to take him home. He did not feel like sharing inane gossip with the DI, instead he chose to walk alone through the dark streets, not going back to Baker Street straight away, but meandering aimlessly through the sleeping city. The cold was caressing his cheeks with icy fingers and he welcomed the sensation on his skin. Looking up into the night sky he enjoyed the few visible stars - a rare occurrence in a city as polluted by light as London. His hands stuffed into his pockets he stopped and watched. It was beautiful, but ice cold and the streets deserted.

'Do you remember, John...?' Sherlock said before he stopped himself mid-sentence. He cleared his throat and wrapped his coat tighter around himself. Embarrassed, he continued on his way home, dreading the cold emptiness of his flat and of his life.

Twenty minutes later he turned the last corner and walked down Baker Street, past the newsagent, dark at this hour, past Speedy's, deserted and sleeping, until the early morning buzz of punters queuing for sarnies and tea would bring it back to life. Bowing his head, he stopped and rummaged through his coat pocket for the keys. Startled by a sudden movement he looked up and took a step backwards.

'John!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if the last chapter was so bleak (it even seemed to have been too bleak to say anything about it ...?) - but this chapter offered a glimmer of hope, right?!  
> Thank you all so much for your feedback, please continue to tell me what you think!  
> JJ xx


	4. Approximation

Sherlock sat down, leaving it to John to find a place to sit. Crossing his feet at the ankles, he settled comfortably into his battered leather chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, thus unconsciously adopting his thinking pose. His whole posture said that he was very much at home, whereas John was very much not.

Trying to mask his uneasiness John cleared his throat. Clenching and unclenching his left hand, he let his eyes roam through the familiar sitting room, registering subtle changes here and there and, most noticeable of all, the increased level of untidiness.

His chair was still in his customary position, slightly to the side of the fireplace, opposite Sherlock's chair, but it was evident that he had no right to sit there tonight. It would mean acknowledging a status they did not have anymore, one they would possibly never have again - and so John remained hovering in between, indecision written all over his face.

Silence settled between them, but eventually Sherlock took pity and broke it.

'How are you?'

'Fine - I'm - um - fine, yes.'

Feeling slightly reassured, John made a decision and walked over to the sofa to sit down. Sherlock let his hands sink to the armrest of his chair and faced him. With narrowed eyes he was assessing this version of John, who looked tired, exhausted even, his skin pale and his mouth pinched. His gaze dropped to John's restless hands and wandered up to his face again. He was waiting, giving him time, yet entirely unwilling to make it any easier for him.

John looked up, noticed Sherlock's impassive gaze resting on him and stood up. 'This is a mistake, I should not be here.'

'No!' Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, blocking John's way. 'You are _not_ running away now. You came here for a reason and I want to know it!'

He was looming over John, taking full advantage of his height, his face clouded, a blush on his cheeks.

'That's what we always do! We run away and never talk, that's exactly why we're here!' Sherlock's voice had risen, and he waved his hands, indicating the flat, them. 'We never ever talk about the things that really matter!'

'Ah, yes - _that's_ the problem, of course!' John said sarcastically. 'By all means, let's talk it over!'

'Clearly.'

John huffed, obviously less convinced of the power of words. Still, he nodded. Yet, nothing was happening, nobody was forthcoming with any more than weighted silence  - Sherlock continued to stare at him, and John soon began to fidget under his gaze.

'All right, your way - always _your_ way.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, unwilling to stoop to this level of childishness. This was serious, not a laughing matter.

John huffed some more, then he said. 'Why can't we just go on like before. Why do you have to make me choose?'

'Why ...?' Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a deep furrow between his brows. 'I would say that's obvious. I'm not content with half of you. How could I be? I want all of you. John Hamish Watson, all of you - for me.'

'You _want_ \- Yeah - right, of course, if Sherlock Holmes wants, then he shall have.' Sherlock noticed the irritation, felt his own composure crumble, this was more difficult than he had thought. 'I can't give you _more_. I'm married, I have obligations.'

'I hear what you are saying, and I hear what you are not saying.'

'For fuck's sake, Sherlock!' John exploded. 'Leave the deduction crap aside for once and speak plainly.'

Sherlock looked offended, and John hastened to add, 'Please, let's - just keep this simple.'

'You are talking about duty, about obligation, but you are not talking about love.'

John stared at him, then closed his eyes, his lips trembling, his shoulders slumping, and all at once the fight left him.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock.'

He turned away, hiding his face from Sherlock's piercing gaze. He slumped down on the sofa with a huge sigh and buried his head in his hands. His chest was heaving with all the repressed emotions, with all the words unsaid. Sherlock returned to his chair, but faced John. Closing his eyes for a second, he tried to calm down, and to school the expression on his face. Impassive and detached. He waited.

' _Jesus_ , I'm... ashamed, so ashamed. I treated you like a... ' John sniffed, biting back the tears. 'I had to make you... small to feel better, I had to think about you as someone who was dragging me down. But I was drowning - drowning, you know?' He looked up at Sherlock, begging him to understand. 'I kept telling myself that I treated you like that as punishment for what you'd done to me. Faking your suicide, leaving me behind, leaving me alone for two fucking years!'

'Obviously we can call it a draw now, John.'

John snorted and looked up, but they were was no sarcasm on Sherlock's face, only sadness. He flinched when Sherlock quickly stood up.

'Do you still think these two years away from you had been easy for me? I don't know what to say anymore - I apologised for all the hurt that I caused you and I explained why I could not contact you. You know bloody well, why.' Sherlock got up, pacing from his chair to the door and back, agitated. 'For God's sake, John. You've seen my back ...'

'Don't...' John screwed his eyes shot, the memory of pain fluttering in his belly and the hot flush of shame washing over him. Shame and self-loathing at equal measures, it was, and in that instance it was crystal clear that Sherlock would send him packing. And by God, he deserved it. But now the dam had burst, there was no turning back, and he might as well tell him everything.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know if you can forgive me.' John hesitated, unsure, how Sherlock would take what he was about to tell him. 'Will you let me explain? Please?'

He looked up, seeking approval, and Sherlock nodded.

'There was nothing left after you'd gone. I was alone - my whole life torn to pieces, my heart broken. There were days when I thought, this is it, I can't go on, better end it now. I had a stack of pills ready...' He stopped, lost in thought and when he spoke again, regret laced his words. 'I met Mary at my lowest point and it was easy with her. She was funny, easy-going, nothing complicated about her. She made me laugh again, made me feel something. But I don't love her.' John shrugged helplessly, 'I just don't love her.'

Shyly he reached out to Sherlock, who was standing close to him now, enveloping his hand with his own, and Sherlock let him.

'Because it's you, Sherlock - always and only you.'

 

 

*******

 

 

They talked about everything, nothing was left unspoken. It was exhausting, it was painful and left them both drained. It was way after midnight when Sherlock left and went for a walk, he said he needed some air, and John slept on the sofa, waking when Sherlock came back, the cold air of the London night sweeping with him into the living room.

John sat up and rubbed his eyes.

'What's the time?'

'Past two,' Sherlock took off his scarf and coat and dropped both onto the kitchen table. He slowly walked over to John. For a moment he watched him, his gaze intent and dark, then he bent down and kissed him briefly on the lips.

'Will you let me stay?' John blurted out and stood up, in need to be close, in need to see, but what he did see on Sherlock's face broke his heart.

'No, John.'

Sherlock moved away, he had to, if he felt John in any way he would not be able to say what he had to say.

'I won't let you stay. I can't. Tonight, you came here because you did not want to be with Mary. When I will let you stay, it will be because you came for me and only for me.' He smiled sadly.

'And then it will be for good.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of your comments on the last chapters told me that this version of John is thoroughly unlikable and that he really has to work to earn Sherlock's forgiveness. I agree.  
> I'm happy about every comment and all your lovely feedback! Thank you very much :)  
> JJ xx


	5. Drawing Breath

'Ready?'

Sherlock nodded and settled back into the seat, relying on Greg Lestrade to start the motor and routinely ease his car into the traffic, leaving Baker Street swiftly behind. London's streets were as busy as ever, even now at half past eight in the evening, with people either driving home or into town for a night out.

All day long it had been gloomy and freezing, and if the forecast was to be believed, snow was threatening. Greg neither minded darkness nor bad weather when he was driving, in fact he was entirely indifferent to anything that less experienced or more excitable drivers would shy away from.

He glanced sideways at Sherlock who was staring straight ahead, seemingly absent, his hands folded in his lap and entirely still.

'Your brother has prepared the cottage for you, I take it?'

Sherlock sighed and at first Greg thought he would not get an answer.

'Wrong -' Sherlock eventually said. 'He made one of his minions prepare it. Mycroft never lifts a finger when there is somebody else to do a chore for him. Physical strain might ruin the perfect lines of his suit, clearly he tends to avoid it.'

Greg snorted. 'He seems quite agile to me.'

'Wrong again. He merely _appears_ to be agile - one of his more successful party tricks. How to appear like a busy little bee when in fact you are as lazy as a lounging cat.'

'Anyway - In the mail he sent to me he mentioned that the cottage will be cleaned, the heating on and the fridge full.'

Sherlock scoffed. 'Always such a thoughtful big brother.'

Greg glanced at him again. 'I assume he cares - and so do I, Sherlock. We all do.'

Sherlock turned his head and looked at Greg. He did not comment, but his lips were slightly quivering. Glancing quickly away, he bit down on his bottom lip to stop it from trembling. Outside, the London streets were whooshing by and Sherlock leaned his head against the cold window pane. Closing his eyes he concentrated on nothing more demanding than the time to pass.

 

 

*******

 

 

'Here we are at last!'

Sherlock jolted awake, blinking in confusion. Greg killed the motor and they were surrounded by nothing but silence. It was past ten and they had reached the little cottage overlooking the sea before the weather had turned. Tonight the snow would come, though, Greg could feel it.

Light was falling from the cottage windows facing the drive, beckoning them in. Sherlock knew that everything would be prepared to perfection, the beds made, the rooms warm and cosy, probably a spot of supper waiting for them in the kitchen. He did not know how he felt about all of that, this arrangement, this getting - no, running  - away from it all, but he had agreed to his brother's plans, and now they were here.

He unbuckled and got out of the car, stretching his limbs. Greg did the same, sighing when his hurting back painfully reminded him that he wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore.

Sherlock lifted his suitcase from the boot and handed Greg his own bag. He had agreed to stay the one night until Sherlock had settled in. After all, nobody could know how long he would stay here, how long it would take to find a state of equilibrium again.

'Thank you, Greg,' he said and smiled. He meant the drive, he meant his help, he meant his friendship.

'You're welcome.'

Sherlock passed Greg and walked up to the dark blue wooden door. He unlocked it and when he entered the small cottage, the cosy warmth enveloping him like a pleasant childhood memory, the thought of John slipped from his mind for a second for the first time in weeks.

 

 

*********

 

 

'You are unbelievable!' Mary's voice was controlled, but her face was flushed, a testament of the past hour of arguing to and fro. 'I am _not_ leaving this flat!' She crossed her arms in front of her chest. 'I have nowhere to go - and why on earth should _I_ go? If anyone has to go, it's you! After all, you are the adulterer!'

John flinched. She knew exactly how she could hurt him. 'Fine - good.' He cleared his throat and straightened his back. 'I'll go. Give me a week to find a place to stay.'

Neither of them said a word. John was weary of the constant fighting, but glad to have reached a decision. Suddenly Mary's face changed and became all soft and her voice pleading.

'Do you really have to go, John? Do you? Please, stay ...' A single tear was rolling down her cheek and John's heart clenched. He had no intention of making her suffer more than necessary. He walked over to her and embraced her quickly.

'We talked about this, time and again. We agreed...'

'No, we didn't!' Mary spat, her mood changing yet again, and she tore herself loose from John's embrace. 'You decreed that we should split, that we should go our separate ways - and I don't see why? Why, John?'

John sighed and brushed his hand over his face. 'Because I can't go on like that. Because I made mistakes and I want to make amends. Because I don't want to make another mistake and regret it for the rest of my life.'

She looked at him then, gnawing her lower lip, her eyes filling with tears again. She was staring at him, her arms akimbo and tears rolling down her cheeks, when all of a sudden the expression on her face changed.

'Out!' She screamed, her voice loud and hysterical. 'Get out I said! I can't stand being around you anymore. Get the _fuck_ out!'

She grabbed books from the coffee table and started hurling them in his direction, screaming and sobbing. One heavy tome hit John square in the chest and he ducked to avoid another one. He quickly strode past her and out of the room, her screaming and the noise of smashing glass accompanying him to the door.

 

 

*********

 

 

'Will you be okay - alone?'

Sherlock smiled. 'Obviously.'

'Call me when you need company. I can be here in two hours - it's good to get the London air out of my lungs once in a while!'

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, glancing at Greg over the rim of his cup. He looked tired and tense and he felt the need to reassure him once more. 'I'll be fine, Greg. As long as the wifi's working ...'

Greg snorted. 'Yeah - right.'

 

*******

 

They hugged briefly when they said goodbye, and Sherlock had to fight the urge to climb into the car with Greg and drive back to London. Loneliness would await him here in this godforsaken cottage, giving him time to think, to mull over everything that had happened in the past weeks, and he wasn't entirely sure if all this soul-searching would benefit him.

He watched Greg revert the car out of the drive and waved a last goodbye. Then he turned back into the cottage and closed the door on the cold morning and the snowflakes gracefully fluttering to the icy ground.

 

*******

 

In the coming days he kept to himself most of the time. Apart from an elderly lady from the nearby village coming in the mornings to prepare his breakfast and clean the cottage, he was alone and he filled his days with reading, long walks along the wintry beach, clearing his head. It was lonely, and it was quiet.

Obviously, he got bored sometimes, and then he had to actively fight his demons. He had not come unprepared, though, and found distraction in the cold cases Greg had provided him with.

All in all, his days were long, quiet and lonely, extraordinary only in their uniform eventlessness, but in the end this proved to be exactly what he needed.

 

 

*********

 

 

John tore his gaze away from the free newspaper he had been trying to read. Some gossipy articles about minor celebrities and boring him to the core of his being. He sighed, feeling a mild uneasiness he attributed to hunger. He made a mental note to look for a tearoom first and a B&B later once he had arrived.

The train was ploughing through the landscape, greedily devouring mile after mile, and the scenery passing by slowly changed from urban to rural, from grey to green. The farther they moved away from London the more the green gave way to white, the falling snow prettily covering trees and fields.

John did not know where they were right now and frankly, he did not give a toss about where he was going. This morning he had left the flat he had shared with Mary for good. Luckily, Mike Stamford had agreed to store his stuff until he had sorted out a place to live. At ten he had left Mike's flat with one stuffed holdall and had taken the tube to Victoria with the intention of boarding the first train leaving.

The one he had chosen was taking him south, away from London, away from Mary, away from ...

He sighed, the uneasiness settling in his stomach. Of course, he was aware that he was running away, and maybe he was even being a coward. But being alone for a while would help him find his way, would clear his head.

He was also aware that he had to make a decision regarding his - _their_ \- future soon - and that this decision was really all that mattered at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story seems to be slowly inching forward by one short chapter at a time ... Sometimes that's how it goes with fics, but I hope it's a consolation that at least these short chapters are posted fairly regularly!  
> Thank you for all your great feedback so far :)  
> JJ xx


	6. The Universe Is Rarely So Lazy

John patted his pockets, the ones of his coat, then his trouser pockets.

'Damn!'

He checked the inside pockets of his coat, but to no avail. And then he remembered. His phone was lying on the night table in his B&B room.

'For fuck's sake!'

Without his phone's sat nav he was lost, he had no inkling where he was. Scanning the horizon for a familiar landmark, he noticed a solitary little cottage perched atop the cliff, and started towards it. Maybe the people there could tell him where he was and how the hell he would find his way back to Brighton.

All day he had been walking along the coastal pathway high up on the cliffs and down to the beach and back up again, pausing occasionally, taking his tea in a quiet tearoom in one of the villages he passed, continuing on his way, without noticing at all where he was going.

Sherlock had been all John had been thinking about, Sherlock filling his mind entirely, Sherlock making every fibre of his body resonate with memories. All day he had been caught in the intricate web of the past they shared - as friends, as lovers - and all day he had mourned what he seemed to have lost. It was clear that it was Sherlock and a life with him that he wanted, but he feared he had blown it already, had destroyed this future before it had even begun.

John blinked, the wind had picked up and nipped at him, and a few tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and turned on his heels to make out where he had come from. Of course, he could simply retrace the route he had taken and follow his way back along the beach until he would hopefully reach Brighton, but it was late and getting dark. Besides, he was knackered, the wind was picking up and he was frozen to the bone.

No, he would try his luck and see if anybody was at home in that cliff top cottage. He would be charming and friendly, and he would ask if he could possibly use their phone. His plan was to warm up a bit and then call a cab to take him back to the B&B, damn the expense.

Yes, that's what he was going to do.

 

 

*********

 

 

The wind coming from the sea was hitting Sherlock square in the face, bringing with it icy droplets tasting of salt, and the gusts of wind were whipping his curls every which way, nipping at his scarf and coat. It was wonderful and Sherlock willingly leaned into this force of nature. The all consuming magnitude of it cleared his head and chased away everything, but the instinct telling him not to stumble, not to fall.

He had always loved the sea, the sheer force of it, untameable and raw. Memories of childhood holidays spent on this beach came back to him, memories of playing with Redbeard and of annoying Mycroft.

Sherlock opened his arms wide and closed his eyes, leaning into the wind, feeling the sea water lapping at his feet and taking a few steps backwards in response. He laughed out loud, but the wind snatched the sound from his lips and carried it away.

 

 

*********

 

 

The first knock was too tentative and evidently not loud enough to rouse the inhabitants, so John tried again.

'Yes!' He heard footsteps approaching. 'Coming...'

The door opened a crack and the wrinkled face of an elderly man appeared. 'Yes?'

'Good evening! I - um - I was walking along the beach and got lost. And I forgot my phone in the B&B, so - I was wondering if I could possibly use yours to call a cab?'

The old man narrowed his eyes at him, hesitating. From the background a woman's voice could be heard. 'Who is it, Edmund?'

The man called over his shoulder. 'A young man - Don't know him. Says he wants to use our phone and call a _cab_!'

John heard footsteps approaching and then the door was opened wide, revealing the man who had to be Edmund and a woman who John assumed must be his wife. She was drying her hands on a flowered apron, tied neatly with a bow under her bosom. Unashamedly she gave John the once-over, but obviously he passed the test if her open smile was any indicator.

'So you're the young man without a phone. Oh my, the world's coming to end when there's no mobile phones, isn't it!' She winked at John who smiled back. 'Come in, come in!' Stepping aside, she urged her husband to make room for John as well.

'Thank you, that's very kind of you. The name's Watson, Dr Watson.'

'Esme Miller, this is my husband Edmund.' She rubbed her hands. 'Don't just stand there, you're letting in the cold. Come in, come in!'

 

 

*********

 

 

Sherlock huddled deeper into his coat and slowly traced his way back home along the beach. There was barely enough light left, but he knew this route by heart and without stumbling he walked away from the shore, through the dunes and up the path.

The last stretch of his way home led along the coastal path and he particularly enjoyed this view over the sea, splendid with the lights of all the little coastal towns twinkling in the distance.

A light dusting of snow covered the ground, it had been snowing on and off during the past two weeks, and the air was crisp with the cold, though the wind was less noticeable up here. Sherlock drew a deep breath and paused to look out over the sea.

At this point of his day he usually allowed himself a little indulgence, allowed himself to think of John, to conjure up his handsome face, his eyes, his smile and his touch. And he would allow himself to revel in the joy of it, in the way it made his skin prickle and his fingertips tingle with the memory of the intimacy they had shared. Sherlock closed his eyes and deeply inhaled the cold sea air one more time. Letting out his breath he opened his eyes again and savoured the last morsel of the image, memorising it, before he turned and walked back to the cottage.

 

 

*********

 

 

'More tea, Dr Watson?'

'John, please. No, thanks, I really have to get back.'

'Ah - yes. The _cab -_ Edmund called our local taxi company, Simon will be here soon.'

'Ta - ' John said and smiled. The Miller's were a lovely couple, offering him tea and a warm kitchen and now they had even called a cab.

' _Cab_ \- you said. On holiday here?'

'Yeah - right, just the few days - clearing my head.'

'Our sea air does a world of good, doesn't it?'

John nodded and downed the last of his tea.

'Where are you from, if I may be so bold to ask.'

'London.'

'Londoner, eh?' Edmund piped up. 'We've got hordes of Londoners here in the summer, swamping us.'

'Don't start, Edmund,' Esme admonished her husband. 'Tourism does us all a lot of good. And we've got the place for us all winter. You know, it's very quiet around here this time of year, John. Not many tourists at the moment.'

'I see.'

'Silly me. I almost forgot, isn't Mrs Gordon from the village working for another Londoner at the moment, Edmund dear?'

'Eh?'

'You know, the cottage further down the coast. It's a summer house, posh family, have been coming here for ages. A couple with three sons, though I heard one of them's died, had a terrible accident ages ago, don't you remember?'

'Hmm,' Edmund stuffed his pipe and leaned back.

'What was the name again? Herriot or something?'

'Holmes,' Edmund said, puffing contently on his pipe which had finally caught. 'They're called Holmes.'

John's heart clenched and he almost choked on his tea. Carefully he put the cup back in the saucer and meticulously placed both, cup and saucer, on the table. He tried his hardest to appear unaffected, folding his hands in his lap and staring at a random point on the wall. His heart was beating painfully in his throat.

'Yes! You're absolutely right, dear. Of course - Holmes, that's it. And the youngest son is staying at the cottage at the moment. He's a famous detective in London, I saw him on the telly. Mrs Gordon says he's very quiet, these days. No visitors, keeps very much to himself.'

John felt a flush creeping up his neck and his hands were clammy - _Stay calm, stay calm -_ He cleared his throat. 'Do you - um - happen to know if he's still here?'

Edmund shot a warning glance at his wife, it was time to stop chatting, after all this was none of their business. Esme smiled at John and routinely ignored her husband.

'Yes - yes, I think so. Why do you want to know?'

'I know him.' John cleared his throat. 'I know him very well. Haven't seen him in a while, though.'

'Oh, you must go and visit, then!' Esme exclaimed. 'I'm sure he'll be delighted!'

John smiled sadly. 'Yes - I hope so.'

 

 

*********

 

 

Early the following morning Sherlock was sipping tea and watching the choppy sea from the living room window. The urge to be outside and to feel the force of the wind was almost overwhelming. He turned his head when he heard the clinking and clunking of cutlery and plates. Mrs Gordon was busy in the kitchen, clearing away his breakfast.

His whole body was tense, yearning to be outside, to be alone - _Damn it! -_ He could not wait any longer, he left the mug on the coffee table, walked into the corridor where he grabbed his scarf and coat.

'Off out,' he called in the direction of the kitchen, pretending it was Mrs Hudson. A smile accompanied him outside where he shrugged into his coat and tied his scarf. With a spring in his step he set out towards the beach.

He had texted his brother last night that he would like to get back to London. Mycroft had agreed and half an hour later Greg had called to tell him he would fetch him this Saturday. One more day and he would back in 221b. One more day - and Sherlock was determined to make the most of it.

He walked quickly, eager to get down to the beach, to the sea, to say a kind of goodbye. It was sentimental, he was well aware of it, but it was appropriate.

As predicted the beach ahead of him was gloriously empty, as it was too early, too cold and too windy for casual strollers, and the hardy dog walkers had already been. Sherlock was continuing down to the water's edge when he made out a lone walker coming towards him from the left. He was still too far away for Sherlock to make out any details, but he was annoyed that his goodbyes should be interrupted and decided to ignore him.

Irritated he hunched his shoulders and ostensibly turned his back to the walker. He continued walking towards the water's edge, where he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

As estimated he heard footsteps approaching after one and a half minutes, the crunching of sand and stones getting louder, audible even over the howling of the wind. Sherlock opened his eyes, staring straight ahead, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the intruder. Surely, the walker would recognise his indifference and continue on his way, leaving him in peace.

Instead the noise ceased entirely, indicating that the walker had stopped, and Sherlock was about to draw a breath to put this imbecile in his place with a cutting remark, when a familiar voice said:

'Hello Sherlock.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenery around Brighton in this chapter is entirely fictional and only moulded to fit my narrative needs. You could think along the lines of Broadchurch if you want to have a visual of the beach, the coastal paths and the cliffs.  
> And ... we finally have the boys together again ;) More in the next chapter!  
> Thank you so much for all your great support. It's very, very much appreciated!!  
> JJ xx


	7. Waves

Sherlock spun around. 'John!'

Instinctively he took a step towards him, ready to gather him in an embrace, but stopped himself. John had moved forward as well and so they ended up standing close, feeling each other's presence like a stinging burn on their skin, but neither daring to touch. Sherlock's eyes roamed over John instead, taking in the stubble, the tousled hair, the reddened cheeks, the insecurity in his stance.

'For God's sakes, John. What are you doing here, sneaking up on me like that?' Sherlock's voice was tinted with irritation, but somehow he was unable to stay irritated and allowed elation to win the upper hand. He smiled.

'How did you find me? What are you doing here?'

John, only to glad to mirror Sherlock's smile, tried to answer as calmly as possible, his steady voice defying the wildly beating heart in his chest.

'I came here by train, last week. Had to get out of London, catch some fresh air, clear my head.' He pointed over his shoulder. 'I'm staying in Brighton, a lovely B&B. Come to think of it, I can't recommend it, the landlady is a bloody dragon. I'm under the strict order not to cook in my room, never to put my shoes on the counterpane and under no circumstances to let visitors enter my room after ten. _Female_ visitors, that is.'

Sherlock snorted and cocked his head. 'So?'

'So -' John exhaled, releasing some of the tension. 'I'm leisurely exploring the town, walking around, sightseeing. Did you know that there are ten different tearooms on the promenade alone? If you ever need a recommendation where to get the best scones, I'm your man.' John stopped, drawing a breath, he knew he was babbling. 'Yeah - right. And today I came here to this beach because I was looking for you.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'How could you possibly have been looking for me here? I never told you about our cottage. You couldn't even know I left London.'

'True - but you have gossipy neighbours, Sherlock.'

'Ah! Mrs Gordon's been blabbing, I take it.'

'So I have been told.'

'Told?' Sherlock frowned, this was getting stranger by the minute. 'Told by whom?'

'I was walking on the beach yesterday, got lost, looked for help and accidently wound up talking to your next-door neighbours, Mr and Mrs Miller. As luck would have it, Mrs Miller likes a bit of a chat and so she told me that another _Londoner_ was staying nearby' He pointed at Sherlock. 'You!'

'Neighbours!' Sherlock lifted the corner of his mouth, the attempt to smile failing to disguise the confusion he felt. 'What a lucky coincidence you came looking for me today. I'm off tomorrow.'

John's face fell. 'Tomorrow?'

'Yes,' Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. 'Greg will come and take me back to London.'

'Greg? Greg Lestrade?'

Sherlock nodded. He turned to the sea, then to John and looked at him from under his lashes. 'Since you're already here .... fancy a stroll?'

John tilted his head to the side and nodded.

For a while they walked in silence, side by side, the wind caressing their faces and nipping playfully at their hair. They both knew that they could not postpone the inevitable for long, there was no way of avoiding getting to the core of why Sherlock had left London and had been walking alone along this beach and why John had sought him out. It was coming, but for the time being they were content to be silent and to enjoy the force of the wind and the agitated sea instead.

Nevertheless Sherlock tested how he felt about John's close proximity, carefully examining his level of agitation, and with startling clarity he realised that he was lost. Glancing sideways at John, he saw the firm set of his mouth, the moving jaw, the way he stared ahead. He glanced down and saw John's clenched fists, the left hand, the one closer to Sherlock, clenching and unclenching. All the signs were there and they mirrored Sherlock's state of unrest perfectly.

Abruptly he stopped in his tracks, John only following suit after he had realised that Sherlock was no longer at his side. He stopped walking and turned back to him.

Sherlock bit his lips. This was difficult, and seeking guidance he glanced out at the sea and back to John who was looking up at him expectantly. God, how he wanted to touch him, how he wanted to draw him close, but not yet - not yet. He was mulling over the appropriate words to choose when John pressed ahead and spoke.

'You know, I had no choice in the matter, once I knew you were close by. I had to seek you out, talk to you, see if there was... maybe...' He drew a deep breath. 'You said that I should only come back to you when I'm sure... Well, I _am_! Sure, that is... When we were apart, I was so alone and I missed you so much, Sherlock. It took my breath away how much I missed you and your impatience, your arrogance, your brilliance and big heart, your tenderness, your smile ...' He broke off, looking out over the sea, talking as much to himself and Sherlock as to the vast expanse of nature. 'Mary is history, you know. I moved out, left all my stuff with Mike for the time being. When I'm back in London, I will look for a place to live, start anew.'

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John now, on his profile, reading him, gauging his words, assessing if he should be taken in by what he heard. John turned to him and Sherlock chose to remain silent.

'I know that I was wrong. Frankly, I was an utter arse and my treatment of you was abominable, cheap - horrid. I'm so sorry and all I can do is hope that you will forgive me... eventually.' He flinched, 'I fear that you will tell me it's too late, that I've blown it, destroyed what we had. But, believe me I'm sure now of what I feel for you and what I want to happen...' He hesitated again, his fingers tingling, he so wanted to touch Sherlock, to feel the texture of his coat, his scarf, to let his thumb run along the soft skin of his jaw, but he knew it was not his decision.  Not at all, this was for Sherlock to decide.

'How did Mary take it?'

'She was furious, naturally.'

'Clearly.'

'Haven't heard a peep from her since I left the flat.'

'I assume she will try to get you back?' Sherlock's voice was trembling. 'I know I would fight for you with all I have. Like when I...' he broke off, biting his lip.

'I know...' John nodded, memories washing over him, drowning out the here and now for a moment. He stared out over the choppy sea, unperturbed by human sorrow, indifferent to the little drama playing out at its shore.

'She may try as hard as she wants,' John eventually said, sniffling, still trying to bite back the emotions. He lifted his hands, and it took some effort to let them sink again to his side without touching what he longed to be his again. 'Mary can't have me back. I filed for divorce. It's over, Sherlock.'

Abruptly Sherlock turned away, hiding his face. John let him, standing back and leaving him the space he so clearly needed. His heart broke a little when he saw the heaving of Sherlock's shoulders, the trembling of his fingers fluttering close to his face. After a long moment Sherlock let his hands sink to his side and turned back to John, silvery traces of tears on his cheeks, his lips slightly quivering and his eyes shining. He could not speak and merely waited for more.

'It's _you_ I want, Sherlock,' John said. 'You, only you - now and forever. You - for better and for worse. You...' His voice broke and he cleared his throat. 'You are the best man I ever met and you deserve nothing but happiness and love. I know that I can be the one love you, that I can make you happy...' Words and feelings, unspoken for such a long time, were pouring out of him effortlessly now, and his heart clenched with the sorrow of all those wasted years and wasted opportunities. He would be damned if he did not try one more time.

'Will you take me back? Will you let me try to get it right this time?  - Please?'

Sherlock blinked, and blinked again, silent tears coursing down his cheeks. He stared at John, the wind playing with his curls. He looked so young and vulnerable, with his eyes wide and shining and his face an open book.

'Yes.' He finally said and stepped into John's embrace. 'Yes - yes, I will.'

 

 

*********

 

Mrs Gordon dried the last of the teacups, and ranged it on the dresser in the dining room where it belonged, next to the saucers and the little milk jug with the pattern of delicate flowers in cream and blue. She gently touched it, sliding her index finger over the smooth surface. She had a soft spot for this particular pattern and had rejoiced when she had found it in the Holmes cottage all those years ago when she had started working for the family.

Back in the kitchen, she left the tea towel to dry on the railing of the Aga. With an experienced eye she inspected the kitchen - Yes, everything was as shipshape as she wanted it to be (she prided herself on her meticulousness). When he came back the young Mr Holmes would find a light lunch, and should he be particularly hungry today also a supper to heat, all ready in the fridge. Tomorrow's chore would be to thoroughly clean the house once he had left for London.

The last thing on her list this morning was to make a round of the cottage to make sure all the windows were closed. Mr Holmes was a trifle unobservant when lost in work, and such mundane things as open windows and cold seeping in did not seem to penetrate his concentration.

She chuckled when she thought of him and his outrageous experiments. Granted, he had been awfully quiet at the beginning of his stay, not telling her anything. Not that he had ever been one for gossip, but he had always been much more approachable than his older brother, this cold fish. If she was honest with herself, she really liked the young Mr Holmes, found him very handsome even, with his dark curls and piercing eyes. In the last few days he had seemed much better, though, and she was happy for him.

The last room she inspected was the living room and when she glanced through the large window she thought she could see him down on the beach. But he was not alone, a shorter man was standing close to him and was talking animatedly, waving his arms about. All of a sudden this man let his arms sink to his sides and just looked at Mr Holmes. A small gasp of surprise escaped Mrs Gordon when Mr Holmes embraced the shorter man and it looked as if they were clinging to each other for dear life, never to let go.

She cocked her head, clasping her hands in front of her bosom. A strange happiness permeated her and she giggled, the happiness teaming up with the excitement of the prospect of telling Mrs Miller in detail what she had just witnessed.

 

 

*********

 

 

With a sigh Sherlock stepped into John's embrace and wrapped his arms around him. All restraint fell off him, and he let go, he was trembling, sobs shaking his body. The loneliness of the past months and the desperation he had felt forged ahead and he held on to John as if he was his lifeline, his anchor. John was just as desperate, realising how close they had verged on the edge, how close the precipice had been.

'Shh - ' he whispered, his face buried in Sherlock's curls, breathing him in, feeling him. 'Don't... Please don't... Everything will be all right. I promise. I won't let you down again.'

He felt Sherlock's grip tightening on him and then he lifted his head, his lips seeking skin, seeking contact. Sherlock instinctively turned his face towards him and when their lips touched, John tasted tears on his lips, the salty bitterness of them. He kissed them away, one by one, slowly and reverently. They kissed, warm and tender kisses, then broke off and locked eyes, their foreheads touching.

'Shall we walk a bit?' John quietly asked, the fingers of his left hand carding through Sherlock's hair and playing with the curls at his nape.

Sherlock drew back to study John's face. The emotions he read there were the same that he himself felt - elation and joy, but also sadness and confusion. He exhaled a shaky breath and looked down. With purpose he intertwined his fingers with John's.

'Yes, let's.'

They set off along the beach, following the natural curve of the shore, holding hands, their shoulders brushing, and from high above the cliff Mrs Gordon followed their progress with a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back together - I hope you feel as elated as they do. Let's see how they will settle back into a life together ...  
> Thank you for all your feedback. I truly appreciate every kudo, every alert and comment!  
> JJ xx


	8. Steps

Greg Lestrade hugged Sherlock, masking his emotions by awkwardly patting him on the back. Sherlock returned the hug, then shrugged into his coat. Scoffing, he turned back into the cottage to fetch a box overflowing with books and files he had almost forgotten. With his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets Greg looked on, rocking on his heels.

'Ready to go?'

Sherlock nodded curtly and adjusted the scarf around his neck.

'Yes.'

His suitcase was heavy and when he stepped outside into the frosty morning, his breath forming evanescent white clouds and the cold pummeling his lungs with sharp little fists, he lowered it to the ground. Greedily he gulped down the sharp, biting air. Turning back towards the cottage his eyes travelled over the front of the house which had been his home for the last two weeks, and with a curt nod he said goodbye. He closed the wooden door, locked it and pocketed the keys.

All the while Greg had been watching him, checking him over and finding him much improved to the last time they had seen each other. His skin was rosy and glowing, his overall gaunt and drawn appearance from two weeks ago much improved.

'Looking forward to the London smog? After all this _fresh_ air.' Greg wrinkled his nose and sniffed the glorious morning like a dog let out of the house after having been cooped up for too long.

'Clearly,' Sherlock replied, the corners of his lips briefly lifting in a lop-sided smile. He was indeed looking forward to being back in London, back at his home, his sanctuary. Yes, he thought not without surprise, he was indeed ready to resume his old life. He tilted his head and looked at Greg.

'Only a minor detour, though.'

'Oh?'

'We have to make a short trip into Brighton.'

'Fancy some Brighton Rock?' Greg grinned, showing his gleaming teeth. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Don't be obtuse, what would I want with sweets?'

'You might have developed a sweet tooth while you were here.'

'Not for Brighton Rock - no.'

'So?'

'We will pick up someone at a B&B and take him back to London with us.'

'Him?'

Sherlock tutted, this was getting tedious. 'John! We're going to take John back to London with us.'

'John?' Greg frowned, but then it clicked. 'John Watson? What's _he_ doing in Brighton?'

'Catching some fresh air maybe?'

'Ah!'

Greg was confused, unwilling to let it show, though. Well, obviously, there was no need at all to relate this fact to Sherlock as he always knew everything, that bastard! But what the heck was John doing down here at the coast? And why did Sherlock know he was here?

What exactly had transpired between them back in London these past months he did not know. Naturally, he had patched together a version of events, he was a DI after all. Greg had known about the nature of their _relationship_ and that they had gone through a rough patch some time ago, Sherlock suffering and losing some of his sparkle in the process, while John had seemed to be bathing in _marital bliss_ (he shook himself, memories of his disastrously failed marriage rearing their ugly heads). This _rough patch_ had resulted in Sherlock and John not seeing each other anymore - and to stop working together as a team, leaving Sherlock sad, desolate and quiet. Both he and Sherlock's brother Mycroft had been very concerned - hence the sojourn in Brighton - away from _the situation_ , from John (and his wife). And now John was here as well? How strange. He huffed and smiled thinly at Sherlock who studied him with narrowed eyes.

'Problem?'

'No, no - not at all - I think.' He managed a more convincing smile. 'Let's get going, shall we?'

Sherlock nodded and walked towards the car. He opened the boot and placed his suitcase and the box of books into it.

'Just be careful, will you?' Greg said, a thought he had not consciously planned on voicing. Sherlock looked up, his face serious.

'Obviously.'

 

 

*********

 

 

The landscape they were rushing through was becoming greyer and bleaker the closer they came to London, the frost prettily dotted on the fields and trees slowly melting under the assaults of the sun. Sherlock blinked, clearing his vision and then turned his head to look straight ahead.

He was sitting in the back of the car - had graciously left the front seat for John as he had no intention of conversing. What he needed was some space, time to clear his head and to dissect the events of the last twenty-four hours.

This position allowed him to avoid the constant chatter between Greg and John, their voices soft and friendly now. The initial restraint Sherlock had felt between them like a thick layer of ice on a village pond seemed to be melting and cracking with every mile. Quite a difference to the very cool greeting Greg had initially offered to John, and to the silence that had been their companion for the first half hour or so. They had come round, it seemed, and Sherlock gladly left them to it. He had no desire to play the mediator in this matter.

More important than the apparent reconciliation of John and Greg was that he could watch John openly from this position. Observe the back of his head with the ash blond hair, individual strands turning grey. The insistent tingling in his fingertips reminded him of the softness of it when he had buried his fingers in John's hair. John's profile was admirable, too, the laughter lines around his eyes and his mouth, how he slightly tilted his head when he turned to Greg, and the corner of Sherlock's lips lifted in synch with his smile.

Obviously, the actual conversation in the front seats, once it had got going, was of no interest to him. No, his intention was to use the journey to gauge his feelings, to test the waters, so to speak, find out if what he had felt at the beach after John's confession yesterday, was valid and substantial. Whether this might indeed prove a fresh start for them. With Mary out of the picture, the basis of their relationship was changed - maybe this was really it, maybe they could make it work now.

Of course, a nagging doubt remained, manifesting itself in a nauseating feeling in the pit of the stomach. Evidently the scars he bore could not be healed quite so easily. Memories of rejection, the feeling of having been used, of being unworthy of love and affection.

Sherlock flinched and closed his eyes on the mixture of conflicting feelings and impressions flitting across his mind. He was fully aware that he - they - would have to work past it, and that even if they would succeed, a sliver of this nagging doubt might remain in the back of his mind despite all efforts.

The spicy scent of John's after shave wafted in his direction and his stomach fluttered, all the nerves in his body suddenly buzzing with longing for John. God, it was strong, so strong, the wish to be safe and warm in his arms, to love and to be loved. A craving so overwhelming it made him dizzy, the wish to lose himself entirely in his embrace, his kiss, his body, his mind.

The sound of John's throaty laughter jerked him back to the here and now, and instinctively he touched the backrest of the front seat, placing his fingertips close to John's nape, his skin still tingling pleasantly with his day dreams. Letting his hand rest close to John Sherlock turned his head and leaned his forehead against the cool window pane. Smiling ruefully, he admitted to himself that his heart and mind might not always agree on how to proceed in the case of a certain Dr John Watson.

 

 

*********

 

 

John' shoulder started to ache with a dull throbbing pain and he lifted his head a fraction, his chin brushing soft curls. Sherlock was asleep, his head resting on his chest and his body partly lying on John's arm. Loath to disturb him as John was, he could not ignore the burning in the muscles of his back and the tingling in his fingers, the result of the blood flow interrupted by Sherlock's weight. Gently he pushed him.

'No...' Sherlock muttered drowsily and John inwardly cursed himself. With a weary sigh he let his head sink back onto the armrest of the sofa, accepting the slowly increasing numbness in his upper arm and shoulder.

To distract himself he kissed the crown of Sherlock's head and slid his free hand softly over his arm draped over John's stomach. He enjoyed the crispness of the fabric of his shirt, and then let his fingers slide underneath it, caressing the warm skin. Up and down, up and down - the caress as soothing to him as it seemingly was to Sherlock who was humming contently. John smiled in response, his heart filling with warmth  - and regret.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, voicing a feeling that had been his constant companion for weeks now. It begged to be vocalised again and again - with the promise of the dull ache dwelling in his heart to eventually alleviate. 'So, so sorry...'

Sherlock sighed in his sleep, tightening his grip on John, holding on.

John turned his head to glance at the clock - half past seven - and then he let his eyes travel through the living room. Over the coat, jacket and scarves carelessly draped over John's chair (how his heart had leapt when he had seen it), on to their suitcases next to the chair on the floor, resting on Sherlock's open one, spilling it out its content.

There had not been a lot words once they had arrived, but an amicably shared cup of tea and John's wish to lie down together a bit, which Sherlock had granted. Surprisingly it had been Sherlock who had fallen asleep almost instantly, claimed by what seemed to be a bone-deep fatigue.

Nothing had been decided yet, plenty of issues were waiting to be touched upon, but they had reached a state from which they could proceed. This night, tomorrow and the days after would show them where to go.

John's chest lifted and lowered with a big sigh, the familiar noises in the flat surrounding him - the kettle clicking as it was cooling off, the rattling of the heating and the cars hurrying through Baker Street. He was as close to happiness as the situation allowed. Slowly John's eyes drifted closed and  without much resistance he let sleep claim him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for writing was scarce this week, so please accept a shorter chapter before we move on to the grand finale ;)  
> Thank you all so much for your lovely feedback!  
> JJ xx


	9. Unity

_The silence was overwhelming._

_Nothing could taint it, so pure was it. It was the silence after the storm, after thunder and rain had raged, after the wind had settled and the sun had come out._

_It was profound and lasting and peaceful._

_It was a silence as well-earned as it was perfect._

 

* * *

 

 

The living room was warm and cosy, dimly lit by a small lamp on the desk. They were sitting close to each other on the sofa facing the fireplace - home, back in London, back in 221b Baker Street.

No, this wasn’t entirely correct. _Sherlock_ was back home and John was staying with him for the time being, let’s not be imprecise and blur the facts, that was the status quo, at least for now.

They had returned from Brighton in the late afternoon, and after settling in and sharing a bite, they had fallen asleep on the sofa. A few hours later, awake again and slightly puzzled, they were in the process of getting accustomed to their new circumstances - John was separated, ready to commit to Sherlock as Sherlock was ready to commit to him (which had never been the problem, had it? He had always been ready to commit to John because he loved him, plain and simple).

They had fallen silent some time ago after having talked about all and nothing, hesitant at first, but then laughing and reminiscing, just like in old times. The silence surrounding them now was peaceful and the familiarity of it made Sherlock’s heart leap. He glanced at John, at his profile, all sharp angles in the dim light, the grey stubble on his chin and cheeks clearly visible. A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine and he fully turned to him to let his eyes roam over John’s face, making it their duty not to miss a single thing pertaining this moment and to register every tremble and twitch, however miniscule it might be.

John stirred, stifling a yawn and blinking the tiredness away. He looked ahead, taking in the disarray of the living room, the suitcases on the floor, the cosiness all this exuded despite the chaos and dimness. Of course, he was aware that he was being observed while doing so. Observed, and his reactions catalogued. Was aware as well that he did not mind being the focus of Sherlock’s scrutiny, not in the slightest.

Unobtrusively he checked his watch, it was getting late and he was growing restless. It was hard for him to sit next to the man he longed for and to keep this bloody distance. His left hand, lying on the armrest of the sofa, clenched and unclenched, a vivid testament of his fight to remain patient, to give Sherlock the space and the time he so obviously needed. _God!_ Being so close, intimate, yet distant, it was hard to hold back and not to rush it, not to take over and go for it, touch him, kiss him, take him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, reading John’s face, realising which direction his thoughts were taking, seeing his struggle from the changes on his face and the unrest visible in his hand. He appreciated John’s restlessness as much as his restraint. Not that Sherlock would mind, he had always loved it when John had been the one taking control, allowing him to surrender.

This was his moment, though and Sherlock was the one to set the pace.

His eyes dropped to his lap, and then he slowly lifted his hand and placed it on John’s thigh, letting it rest lightly there, his thumb drawing small circles. John immediately turned towards him, his head slightly tilted to the side. Still watching each other, observing, waiting, the only noise in the room the clicking of the cooling radiator and the faint humming of the fridge. But the air had lost its stillness, was buzzing now, charged with something electric, heavy and heady.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and bit his lips. Slowly he slid his hand over John’s leg, the fabric of his dark denims rough and soft to the touch at the same time. John responded, slightly opening his legs, pressing his thigh against Sherlock’s. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled through his mouth – one, two three – and then sucked in a sharp breath. Sherlock’s hand lingered, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric, leaving a mark, burning, then wandered up and down his thigh, and down the inside, up and down again, up and down, slowly, gently, but with determination.

The next step was to lean close, to nuzzle John’s neck, sniff his skin, the scents of a long day mingling there right above the collar of his shirt – a faint trace of the sea, of coffee and sleep. He let his eyes flutter closed and sighed. John huffed and Sherlock’s sigh turned into a chuckle, then into a giggle.

‘What?’

‘Nerves, I guess.’

‘Yeah – right,’ John chuckled, but quickly grew serious. ‘Don’t be … I will never …’

‘I know.’

‘It’s just that I know how much…’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you let me finish, you git? I was saying …’

‘Not now.’

John looked at him and nodded. Sherlock leaned towards him, his eyes bright and shining, his skin flushed, his lips slightly parted and when their lips finally met in a kiss it felt like coming home.

Soft lips seeking soft lips, tongues reacquainting, versed in the familiarity, yet eager to explore the strangeness left by time spent apart, celebrating their reunion and mourning the time wasted. Kisses as soft as John’s hand in Sherlock’s curls. As exciting as Sherlock’s fingers grabbing the front of John’s jumper and John’s trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. As arousing as John’s strong hands on Sherlock’s back and Sherlock straddling John. And as soothing as the steady beating of John’s strong heart underneath Sherlock’s fingers.

Moans soon mingled with breathless gasps. Yet, it was soft, so soft and tender. This was giving and taking, this was allowing and granting, this was gaining and building trust.

This was just right.

 

 

*******

 

 

Sherlock’s head was spinning with the lack of air and he forced himself to focus on his breathing - in and out, in and out, in and out - He lowered his head and stilled the movement of his hips. An impatient grunt brought him back to his senses, and when he opened his eyes he saw John’s face swimming into focus right underneath him.

He smiled and nodded, his hips willingly resuming their rhythm. John grabbed his head and guided him down, kissing him messily, rendering him breathless and dizzy once more. Now every thrust was paired with a kiss and when Sherlock’s hips moved faster and harder, all John was capable off was to press his lips on Sherlock’s, panting into his mouth, slowly falling apart.  

‘Fuck…’ John panted. ‘Sherl … ffuck…’ mumbling more and more obscenities against Sherlock’s lips who was unable to speak, let alone swear, and merely grunted. It was too much and yet not enough, and Sherlock stopped again, freeing himself from John’s grip to sit back on his haunches, grabbing John and pulling him up and into his lap. He was trembling all over and he forced himself to breathe evenly again, to slow things down. Holding onto John calmed him.

‘You’re doing this on purpose…’ John pressed out, breathing heavily against his neck. He licked along Sherlock’s flushed skin and playfully bit him. ‘Get _on_ with it.’

Sherlock chuckled, pushy John was lovely, his quivering impatience exciting. He indicated to John to sit up a bit and then slowly guided him down to renew their connection. Both arms around John’s torso, their connection was now complete and the sensation of skin on skin electrifying, and when John started to move up and down, sparks of arousal bloomed in his body and tingled all over his skin. Grunting, he fell into the rhythm John dictated, moving inside John as much or as little John as wanted him to. The silence of the night, of their room, was pierced by their gaps and grunts, by their pleasure and arousal.

Getting closer Sherlock arched his back and closed his eyes, giving himself entirely to the moment - Pulsing blood under hot skin, tingling fingertips and burning muscles, getting close, closer, merging, becoming one, drifting apart and finding each other again, heat pooling inside his belly, filling him, pushing him - them – towards the edge. The combination of John’s body dictating the pace of their lovemaking and the intense sensation of him moving inside John was pure and intoxicating.

‘John …’, he panted. He was close, so close. ‘John… I…’ The heat was intense now, the sensations overwhelming. And then everything was cresting, crashing, his orgasm hitting him hard, shaking him to the very core and leaving him still and breathless.

 

 

*******

 

 

‘You all right?’

Sherlock nodded, finding pleasure in the gentleness of this simple inquiry.

‘For a second I thought you’d fainted…’

He chuckled and tried to lift his head. It was impossible. Instead he mumbled against John’s naked chest. ‘I’m fine, absolutely fine – glorious even.’

‘Glorious?’ John laughed, his body trembling, and Sherlock enjoyed the reverberation. ‘That’s a big word.’

‘Fitting.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yep.’

‘All right, then. Glorious, it is.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ John cleared his throat and adjusted his position, nervous habits, avoidance tactics, but there was nothing to improve and nothing to avoid, he was as comfortable as he could be. ‘Well … I think I’m feeling just as _glorious_.’

He buried his nose in Sherlock’s mussed curls, and kissed the top of his head. It was getting too warm, Sherlock on top of him was getting too heavy, at some point they should clean themselves, preferably before falling asleep, but apart from those details, he could not remember that he had ever been happier. Or that he had ever felt like this before.

‘Me too,’ Sherlock mumbled, and John huffed. He was doing it again. Reading his thoughts from his heartbeat or the angle of his arms wrapped around his back or the way his socks were lying crumpled on the floor or _whatever_ …

God, how he had missed that!

John’s body tensed, his eyes welling up. He tried blinking the bloody tears away – no use. Instead he whispered ‘I love you,’ without thinking, instantly terrified of the words he had just spoken, but brave enough not to take them back and to actually mean them for the very first time.

‘That’s exactly what I meant,’ Sherlock mumbled. His words were clear, but his voice was low and drowsy as sleep was claiming him.

‘I know, my love,’ John said and kissed him again. ‘I know.’

 

 

*********

 

 

The newspaper rustled when John folded it up into the neat square he preferred. Without taking his eyes off a particularly interesting article he groped for his mug of tea and Sherlock gently pushed it towards him.

‘Thanks,’ John said gruffly, hiding his smile behind the newspaper.

Sherlock nodded and lifted his own mug of tea, wincing when the lukewarm tea hit his taste buds. Affronted he eyed the amber liquid in his mug.

‘This is abominable. I’ll make fresh tea,’ he said and got up, taking their two mugs with him.

With swift efficiency he filled the electric kettle, switched it on, assembled all the necessary ingredients – loose tea, of course, none of this packed sawdust – added a fresh dollop of milk to the little jug, checked if there was enough sugar left in the sugar bowl and, after a moment’s hesitation, added another croissant to the half empty plate on the breakfast table. He had eaten one himself this morning and they were truly delicious. He was busy waiting for the water to boil and contemplating the advantage of a croissant over a buttered toast, when he noticed that John had put down his newspaper and was watching him.

‘What?’

‘Just admiring the view, that’s all.’

‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’

‘Is that so?’ John sat back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest and letting his legs fall open in a very relaxed manner. He looked entirely at ease and admittedly very handsome in his dark blue jumper, moss green checked shirt and tight-fitting denims. Sherlock let croissants be croissants and walked over to him and leaned down to kiss his warm lips.

‘Yes!’

‘No use to ask then,’ John said, the ghost of a smile gracing his features. He turned away from Sherlock, ostensibly focusing on the breakfast table. He cleared his throat and with narrowed eyes he looked at the table in front of him. Pursing his lips, he accurately placed his spoon next to his plate, folded the paper napkin precisely and aligned the newspaper next to this arrangement.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Ask _what_?’

John nodded, frowned as if he needed time to make up his mind, and got up to stand before Sherlock. A big smile lit up his handsome face, and tenderly cupping Sherlock’s face with his warm hands, he stood on tiptoes to press a soft kiss against his lips. Then he asked.

‘Will you let me stay?’

The corners of Sherlock’s lips turned up in that endearing lop-sided smile, the one giving his face a particularly boyish expression, but it wilted and died when a myriad of memories suddenly tumbled through his mind – their sordid and secret affair, the longing and despair, their separation, the loneliness and misery, the love and hope and this fresh start –

Sherlock closed his eyes, gently shaking his head, and slowly exhaled through his mouth. He was slightly confused, definitely overwhelmed, but John … John was here, with him, close, grounding him. And John’s presence was like a benign, warming sun right in front of him.

With a sigh he opened his eyes and pulled him close. Burying his nose in John’s hair he whispered the only possible answer to _all_ of the remaining questions.

‘Obviously.’

 

 

***** The End *****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it! I hope you enjoyed the ride, and the way Sherlock and John found back to each other. I’m aware that this ending might be a trifle disappointing for some of you, but that’s the way this story wanted to end!  
> I want to thank each and every one of you for your wonderful feedback, for all those lovely and thoughtful comments. I am happy about every single one and I can tell you that there’s no bigger encouragement for me as a writer than to hear from you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!!  
> See you soon, my lovelies :)  
> JJ xx

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that first chapter. Please be so nice and tell me what you think!  
> John is not very nice in this fic (at least in that chapter) and Sherlock is so very much in love ... Let's see where this will take them, me ... and hopefully you!  
> JJ xx


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